Of Noble Birth (37 page)

“If you got any brains,
you’ll eat,” Sampson said, moving closer to Nathaniel from where he
had stood along the periphery with the guards. “There’s nothing
else coming till morning. As you can see, the others have figured
it out. They’re bloody smart, eh?”

While Nathaniel was
momentarily distracted from his rancid dinner, the prisoner next to
him grabbed for his bowl and slurped up his soup, letting the juice
dribble down his chin.

Watching him made
Nathaniel’s skin crawl. He was locked up with animals, no longer of
a sound state of mind.

Before his lump of bread
could be stolen as well, he closed his mind to the taste of mold
and forced himself to both chew and swallow. Sampson was right
about one thing: he had to eat to keep up his strength, or he would
end up no different than the rest of them.

From dark until ten, the
men were left to pass the time as they would. Split between three
decks and six wards, they were allowed free range only in their own
small areas, and many loitered about, visiting or causing
trouble.

Nathaniel stretched out on
the hammock that had been assigned to him, struggling to block out
the constant rattle of chains and hum of voices. What now? Had the
duke captured Trenton and the
Vengeance
as well? Or was his first
mate free to collect the guns and take them to the Lord High
Admiral?

If only he knew. If only
he could communicate with Trenton.

“My son.”

Nathaniel raised his eyes
at the soft-spoken voice to see a chaplain standing above
him.

“I am Reverend Hartman. I
offer classes each night that might provide you with some solace.
It would please me to have you join us. It could make the
transition here easier for you.”

Shaking his head,
Nathaniel almost rejected the invitation, then thought better of
it. Here was someone who was neither prisoner nor guard. Clergymen
were privy to a wealth of information, and it could only help him
to understand how things were run in this strange new world—and by
whom. Coming to his feet, Nathaniel said, “Anything is better than
sitting here, Father.”

Pleased at recruiting
another member to his flock, the Reverend Hartman led Nathaniel to
a corner of the ward where a handful of men waited with open
Bibles. Though most couldn’t read, the reverend performed that
service aloud, and Nathaniel was glad he had joined the group if
for no other reason than to enjoy the peace it provided against the
bawdy songs and activities of the others.

When the chaplain finally
closed his book and the group dissipated, Nathaniel took the
opportunity to strike up a conversation with him. “I was hoping you
could enlighten me on a few subjects.”

The chaplain started
stacking the Bibles on a corner shelf. “Of course. What would you
like to know?”

“The clerk is dressed like
a prisoner, but he doesn’t act like one. Who is he?”

Reverend Hartman’s manner
changed instantly. He glanced about before answering, “It’s best to
steer clear of him. He’s a prisoner, but he works for the
overseer.”

“Why is it he has no
chains, and fares so much better than the rest of us?”

“He is a cruel and
dangerous man. I suggest you stay well away.” The reverend changed
the subject: “You don’t speak like a prisoner; I would guess you
are an educated man.”

“Self-educated,
mostly.”

“What did you do to arrive
here?”

“I’m not sure what the
final charge was.” Nathaniel shrugged off the question. He wasn’t
here to talk about himself.

“I’d be curious to learn
the details sometime,” the reverend answered. “But they’re setting
the watch now. You’d better get back to your bunk.”

The watch consisted of
several seasoned prisoners who sat up through the night with a
light burning. They relieved each other every two hours and were
supposed to ensure that no one spoke or moved about, but bribes and
favors rendered the watch ineffective. And Nathaniel heard many
suspicious moans and groans and other things that kept him on his
guard, making sleep impossible.

* * *

Like some mythical dragon
that snorts and shifts as it descends into a comfortable sleep, the
Greystone residence took some time to settle in for the night.
Alexandra waited, listening to the movements of those servants who
still worked in the nether regions of the house, banking fires,
polishing silver, or putting away the plate. Tomorrow morning would
come all too soon, and with it her tiresome responsibilities as
maid. She had to take advantage of every opportunity to seek
information on Nathaniel.

As those around her snored
softly, she climbed from her bed and tiptoed to the stairs,
grateful when no one stirred, not even her bedmate. The stairs
creaked as she made her way down though, and Alexandra was certain
the racket could be heard all over the house. She feared Mrs.
Wright would be waiting for her by the time she reached the bottom,
but when she entered the kitchen, it was dark save for the
moonlight streaming in at the windows.

The duke and his two
children were out for the evening. Alexandra knew Lady Anne had
gone to a dinner party somewhere—the other servants had mentioned
it—but she had no idea what had called Lord Clifton and his father
away, or when they’d come home. She only hoped it wouldn’t be
now.

Heading through the green
baize door that separated the servants’ domain from that of
Greystone’s family, she checked to make sure the front of the house
was equally quiet.

Evidently Lady Anne had
already returned and retired, as no one waited up for her. Perhaps
the duke and Lord Clifton had returned as well. A footman sat in a
room off the entry playing solitaire, but Alexandra knew he’d be
there all night, just as he was every night, to guard against
thieves and the like.

The glow from the
footman’s candle spilled out of the room he occupied, giving her
just enough light to slip by without banging into
anything.

As she started up the
winding staircase, the plush carpet muffled her movements, allowing
her to make quick progress. But when she reached the second floor,
she had to travel more slowly. The darkness in the long halls on
either side was now complete, and she feared she’d bump into a
table or a what-not shelf and knock some priceless porcelain to the
ground.

Greystone’s study
overlooked the front gardens, but the heavy draperies blocked most
of the moon’s light. As soon as Alexandra entered, she shut the
door and began to fumble through the room, looking for a
candleholder.

A moment later she found a
lamp on the desk. Sulfur matches sat beside it in a cold, smooth
container.

The match Alexandra struck
flared with a blue light, then faded to yellow as she held it to
the wick of the lamp before replacing the cover.

The duke’s study held a
large mahogany desk, a high-backed leather chair, a card table, and
several smaller chairs. A picture hung on the wall above the desk.
A man astride a horse. Likely the duke in his younger years,
Alexandra decided. She recognized the slight flare to his nostrils,
the chiseled planes of his face. These features were very much like
Nathaniel’s, but the resemblance ended there. Greystone’s eyes were
more green than blue, and his hair was brown, not the ebony color
of his firstborn son’s.

Various documents
cluttered the duke’s desk. Alexandra rounded it to stand between
desk and chair as she dug through the pile, examining every item.
Most of what she saw related to business: bills of lading, bills
for household expenses, letters from associates or friends, a few
legal documents—nothing that had any obvious connection to
Nathaniel.

She sighed and glanced
about the room again. How could she find out what had happened to
him? There had to be some way, short of visiting every gaol
and—Alexandra shivered—undertaker.

The sound of a cough
coming from the hall outside made Alexandra freeze. Someone was
coming. Quickly raising the glass of the lamp, she blew out the
light. Her mind searched frantically for what she should do, but
there was no time to do anything. The floor creaked and the
doorknob turned as she ducked beneath the duke’s desk.

The light of a candle
flame glowed in the darkness as footsteps crossed the room toward
her.

Alexandra squeezed her
eyes shut, praying she wouldn’t be discovered, and pressed back as
far as she could against the smooth underside of her wooden
haven.

The footsteps stopped on
the other side of the desk. She heard the rattle of paper above
her, then a loud belch.

“Damn cook.”

It was the duke. It had to
be. Alexandra would have recognized Clifton’s voice
immediately.

More rummaging, and a bit
of cursing. Then Greystone seemed to discover whatever it was he
was looking for and fell silent for a while, as though
reading.

“Good,” he mumbled,
grunting in satisfaction, and the steps and the light began to
recede.

Alexandra held her breath
until the duke was gone. She hadn’t realized she was shaking, but
she could hardly stand as the acrid scent of Greystone’s candle
lingered, covering the smell of her own lamp and reminding her of
just how close she’d come to making herself his new
target.

Waiting until her eyes
adjusted to the meager moonlight, Alexandra looked around the study
a final time. She sorted more carefully through the duke’s
correspondence, squinting to make out who had written him, then
rifled through his drawers until she encountered a locked metal
box.

Judging from its weight,
the box held nothing more valuable than a few legal documents, but
the fact that it was locked intrigued her. She padded quietly to
the door, which the duke had left standing wide, and closed it.
Then she returned to the desk and picked up a marble paperweight to
smash the lock.

She stood close to the
window to afford herself what light she could, and glanced through
what appeared to be love letters. Fierce protestations of undying
devotion and lewd invitations written in torrents of misspelled
words and incorrect grammar covered sheet after sheet of cheap
foolscap. Only one was written on expensive stationary by a woman
who appeared to be educated. It came all the way from Scotland and
was signed “Ellyne.” Alexandra soon realized she was reading the
words of Lord Clifton and Lady Anne’s mother.

My children beg me to come
back to England and yet I have never received a single letter from
you. Not
even the apology I so deserve or
a thank you for holding my tongue. In my more generous moments, I
think guilt keeps you so remote. But that must be the beginning of
my dementia speaking. I have lost all of my hair and too much
weight, but the sores have gone for now. When I am strong enough to
be honest with myself I know you do not care that you brought such
a fate home to me. You had to have your doxies, and they had to be
of the most common variety, didn’t they?

Yet I gave you the son you
wanted and, for my children’s sake, say nothing of your trips to
the Greentree Tavern and others like it. I bet you thought I didn’t
know where you went at night. More’s the
pity...
I didn’t know until it was
too late. Still, I want to tell you this: my revenge is knowing
that you will soon follow me. We can’t live forever; Your Grace,
and so, I hope someday to see you burning in the fiery furnaces of
hell. Just as you deserve.

Alexandra blinked as she
absorbed the meaning of the flowing script. Was it syphilis? Had
the duke given his wife syphilis? Anger and pity nearly brought
tears to her eyes for the women who had been destroyed by
Nathaniel’s father, and for Lady Anne and Lord Clifton, and much
more poignantly, for Nathaniel.

Daring to light the lamp
again, Alexandra used a sheet of the duke’s own stationary to pen a
letter to Trenton. Perhaps it was time Greystone received a measure
of his own medicine.

* * *

The guards woke Nathaniel
at dawn for a breakfast of boiled barley. Though the meal would not
have been considered edible anywhere else, Nathaniel hungrily
swallowed the tasteless gruel, noting as he did the absence of so
much as a crust of bread. Evidently rations aboard the hulks were
scantier than he had anticipated. He wondered at the possibility of
receiving a second serving, but as he glanced at the empty bowls of
the other men, he saw that no one asked.

“Can we have more?” he
asked the prisoner seated next to him.

Small-boned, with a gray,
wispy beard and sunken eyes, the man looked almost like a sage,
except for the long scar that disfigured his cheek. He studied
Nathaniel dubiously. “You can ask, if you want to go without for
the rest of the day. Bloody Sampson spends the government’s money
on pig slop—and gives us less than a child’s ration at that—so he
can pocket the difference.”

“Now, that’s a serious
charge,” the clerk interrupted, suddenly bearing down on them.
“Haven’t you learned to control your tongue yet, Joseph? After five
years in this stinkin’ place?”